Right Number
by Woe is Wendy
Summary: England receives a mysterious phone call, which eventually leads to the unthinkable. If only he hadn't answered it, this wouldn't have happened to America. If only... Plot based on the teleplay Sorry, Right Number. Warnings: Character death, OC!Scotland


**Right Number**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya and 'Sorry, Right Number' belongs to Stephen King. ^_^**

**Plot / story idea based on Stephen King's teleplay, "Sorry, Right Number", but with APH characters. Frankly, I'm a pretty crappy writer, but this idea randomly came to mind. apologies for n00bishness. **

"And then I was all 'That's what she said!' And he was like No way, dude! And I was all-" America excitedly recalled his day. The street lights illuminated the road, casting the midnight shadows away. A very grumpy Englishman sat in the passenger seat beside him.

"Shut up!" England snapped. "You're me a headache. Why on earth did I ask you for a lift home?"

"Cos your license totally got suspended after you were caught drunk driving, dude! Hahaha!" America reminded his senior.

"It's not funny! I-" He stopped short when he heard his phone beeping. Fishing it out of his pocket, he looked at the caller ID and frowned.

"Something wrong?" The American asked.

"Strange, it's from an anonymous caller…" The Briton said. Hesitantly, he pressed the 'answer call' button and brought it to his ear.

"Hello?"

"E-E-England?" A shaky voice asked.

"Yes, speaking."

"And America is here, too!" America chirped.

"Be quiet, idiot! Sorry, what were you saying? Who are you?" England asked.

"Oh…oh God! England!" The nation could hear the other party sniffling, and it sounded like he was holding back a sob. "Whatever you do…" The mystery caller was being cut off by static. The reception was poor.

"What? I can't hear you."

"D…g…Scotland…Am...will…" And with that, the line went dead.

England stared at the phone. Who was that? His voice had been full of terror and sorrow. It sent chills down his spine.

"Who was that?" The bespectacled driver asked curiously.

"I don't know. But he sounded frightened. And his voice was awfully familiar, as if it was coming from someone I had a close connection with."

"Maybe it was one of your friends or relatives?" America suggested.

_Relatives?_

…_Scotland?_

England paled.

"What's wrong, man?"

"I couldn't make out what he was saying, because of the poor reception, but I distinctly heard him say 'Scotland'. Oh God, what if-"

"What if your bro is in trouble!" America exclaimed.

England frantically dialed Scotland's number. Somehow, the reception was better, and he managed to get through. However, no one picked up the phone.

He turned to America. "Take us to Scotland's house, now."

"Yeah, we gotta save him!"

England gave America directions to his brother's house. It was a bungalow perched at the top of a cliff at the end of town, about an hour's drive away. England kept trying to call Scotland, even as America drove up the steep, winding road to the lonely house.

Finally, they reached his doorstep. England rang the doorbell furiously, praying that his worst fears were just paranoid thoughts. He called out his brother's name, and started knocking on the door. Both men wore worried expressions on their faces.

"WHAT!" An angry, tired redhead answered the door. He spoke with a heavy accent. "What's so urgent that you had to wake me up at 1 in the morning!"

"Are you okay!" America grabbed Scotland's shoulders and shook him violently. "Are you hurt anywhere? Do you need CPR, man!"

"What on earth are you talking about? England, get your boyfriend off of me!" The angry Scotsman yelled as he tried to pry America's arms off his shoulders. "Loosen your grip! You're gonna bruise my shoulders!"

"He's not my boyfriend, git! America, let go!" England blushed madly. He then proceeded to explain the worrying phone call he had received, and how Scotland had failed to answer his phone.

"My phone's on silent mode. Didn't it occur to you that no one answers phone calls in the middle of the god damn night?" Scotland snapped impatiently. "God, I need a cigarette."

"Wait…if you didn't call, then who was it?" America asked.

"Someone probably just dialed the wrong number." Scotland spat. Then, he started smirking. "Well, at least it's good to know that my little brother is so worried for me-"

"Don't flatter yourself. You're part of the United Kingdom, idiot. If anything happened to you, I'd be in trouble too. Don't think I care about you or anything." Fuming, England turned and walked back to America's car as Scotland lit a cigarette. He hoped that they had not noticed the blush that had crept to his cheeks. "America, let's go."

"Goodnight! Call us if you need a hero!" America waved goodbye. Scotland rolled his eyes and slammed the door shut.

"Weird, I could've sworn that the caller was someone I knew." England seemed to be talking to himself.

"As Scotty said, someone just dialed the wrong number. Otherwise, they would have tried calling you again, right?" America started the engine.

"Yeah, I suppose…OH GOD, AMERICA, LOOK OUT!" England yelled. The car was speeding towards the edge of the cliff. The American panicked, stepping onto the brakes.

"It won't brake!" America replied. He turned the steering wheel madly, but the car had already picked up too much velocity. They plunged off the edge, screaming, holding onto each other for dear life. The car rolled over twice, and when it finally stopped, it was upside down. Blood flooded England's eyes, and he quickly lost consciousness, but not before he heard someone whispering his name.

"England…stay with me! Please!" America begged. That was the last thing England heard before he closed his eyes and was wrapped in shadows.

….

A blinding white light filled England's eyes. Squinting as his vision adjusted to the sudden brightness, he suddenly felt a great pain in his legs.

"Ugh!"

"Don't move," He heard Scotland's voice.

"Scotland?"

"Oh good, you remember me. At least you didn't get brain damage or anything." He chuckled mirthlessly. The Englishman looked around. He was in a hospital room. Scotland was pouring him a glass of water.

Suddenly, he remembered why he was here.

"Where's America?"

Scotland dropped the glass of water upon hearing England's question. His face paled. The glass shattered and sent glass crystals flying over the floor.

"Oh shit, sorry." Scotland apologized and called for a janitor to clean up the mess.

"…where's America?"

"England…" Scotland looked into his brother's wide, terrified emerald eyes. It made him feel uneasy, so he lowered his gaze to the floor. "I'm sorry…he's…"

"He's what?" He raised his voice. "God damn, just tell me!" The nation was trembling, and his mouth felt dry. _No, no, no._

"He's dead."

….

A year later, near Scotland's house, flower petals fly over the edge of the cliff, gracefully dancing with the wind as they fall. The moonlight gives the petals a ghostly glow.

The man throwing the flower petals has blond hair and downcast emerald eyes. He is sitting in a wheelchair. He was undergoing physiotherapy, and would be able to walk again in less than a year.

Even though his legs would heal, he knew his heart would never be cured.

"Rest in peace, America." He murmured as he threw his last handful of flower petals. He had come to the site of the tragedy on America's death anniversary.

"England, let's go." Scotland grabbed the handles of the wheelchair.

"No, just let me stay here." England pleaded. His brother sighed and sat down on the grass next to him, lighting a cigarette.

"England, can you remind me what I told you a year ago, about the events that unfolded after the crash?"

He looked at the sky and tried to recall. "You said you heard us scream, and you heard the crash. Peering over the edge of the cliff, you called for the ambulance and rushed down. The first ambulance that arrived took me to the hospital, and the second ambulance came for America, who passed away in the Intensive Care Unit a day later, while I was still unconscious."

"Yep, that's what I told you. But there's more…"

"More?"

"When the first ambulance arrived, you were out cold. America, however, was still barely conscious. Barely." He took a drag of his cigarette and continued. "He could hardly talk, but he told them to treat you first, and to take you to the hospital first. He said something about him being strong and less in need of medical attention." England turned to gaze at Scotland.

"He was pretty frantic, and kept telling them to save you first. So I climbed aboard the ambulance with you, but not without first turning back to America. I stared at him, and he stared at me. I say Thanks for letting my brother go first, and he mumbles something about how any other hero would have done the same, before coughin' up blood." Scotland's hands were shaking. He was clearly traumatized by the memory.

"I didn't tell you sooner because I could tell you blame yourself for the accident, and telling you this would just make you feel worse. Sorry. I shouldn't have kept it from you for so long."

"America, you git…" England muttered. He wiped his tears away and turned to his brother. "I don't blame you for keeping it from me…" He was telling the truth. "I don't blame myself for what happened." That, however, was a lie.

Minutes ticked by, and they sat in silence, looking at the starry night sky.

"We should get back."

"You go ahead, I'll stay here." Scotland reluctantly got up and walked back to his house.

_If only I didn't get my license suspended. If only I hadn't asked him to send me home. If only that stranger hadn't dialed the wrong number. If only I hadn't picked up that call. If only…_

England thought he felt his phone vibrate. He whipped it out of his pocket, but realized that no one had called him. He had gotten a new phone, with a new number, since the crash. His old cellphone had been lost in the wreckage. He still remembered his old phone number quite clearly, though. Absent mindedly, he dialed his old phone number using his new phone. He did not understand why he did it; he had just felt a strange compulsion to do so.

"Bullocks!" He hissed angrily when the phone slipped out of his hand. He picked it up and wiped it against his green military uniform. He looked at the screen to check for cracks.

When he saw that the phone was calling his old number, the blood drained from his face.

"What? How? It's impossible; my old phone was smashed to smithereens last year…" He stared wide eyed at the screen, and a few seconds later, someone answered the call.

_Someone found my phone from the wreckage?_ He wondered, bringing the phone to his ear. _No…can't be, why on earth would they hold on to it for a whole year?_

"Hello?" The other party politely asked. The Englishman gasped. It sounded just like his own voice. Was…he calling himself?

"E-E-England?" The gentleman stuttered, gripping onto the metallic armrest of the wheelchair.

"Yes, speaking."

"And America is here, too!" He heard another man say. His voice sounded just like America's

"Be quiet, idiot! Sorry, what were you saying? Who are you?" The other party enquired. Now, England started shaking. _Oh God,_ _I'm making a phone call to myself, on the night of America's death. I must warn myself, I must save America._

"Oh…oh God! England!" He croaked, trying to hold back a sob. "Whatever you do, don't go to Scotland's house!"

"What? I can't hear you." England of the past said.

"Don't go to Scotland's house! America will die!" And with that, the line went dead.

England stared at the phone, and tried redialing the number. The only response he got was an automated "Sorry, this number is no longer in use."

England felt his heart pounding ferociously. The phone slipped from his trembling hands. He buried his face in his hands and wept.

_Oh yes, it was someone that sounded awfully familiar. It was someone who I had a close connection with. It was the same person who made that fatal phone call, the same person who caused the death of someone he considered his own brother._

_Me._


End file.
